"Belchamber"
by Howard Sturgis is published in 1904. The story of Charles Edwin William Augustus Chambers - Marquis and Earl of Belchamber, Viscount Charmington, and Baron St. Edmunds and Chambers -- known familiarly as Sainty.
Recently reissued with an introduction by Edmund White, Belchamber is a devastating tale, almost painful in the way, "it poses questions about good and bad behaviour and demonstrates effectively that virtue is rarely its own reward," as Anita Brookner writes. Sainty is an innocent and also as fey and unmanly as the diminutive of his name suggests, sensitive, timid and hopelessly ill-suited for the world he finds himself heir to; he's also a decent creature both oppressed and bound by duty.
It is probably just as well I am coming to a close on 1904, since I don't think any other novel I've read recently so brilliantly sums up the era's clash of high-minded Victorian ideals with the reality of Edwardian scandal, the contrast of sentimental sweetness and light with the base shadows of lurking decadence and corruption. So like our own times. Sainty is trapped in a world he finds morally repugnant and not just because he's been badly cast in it, for he also recognizes how perfectly his younger brother is for the part. In this respect, it is understandable why Henry James hated the book so much. Both Americans living in England, Sturgis looked at British society and said, "What an awful hypocritical set-up, and how absolutely it deserves to be destroyed, and just look at how some of them love it and will defend it to the end."
Whereas Henry said, "What a tragic hypocritical society, and how absolutely it is flawed, and how much I would love to be part of it and defend it to the end."
I guess I think the difference has something to do with envy. A yearning to be a part of. But what I find appealing in Sturgis is the sense that certain things need to come to an end. Like Pauline Kael said about "Earthquake" -- you know perfectly well the people who built those glass houses on stilts on the sides of sandy cliffs were stone-blind drunk and giggling when they did; it's gratifying to see L.A. destroyed.
Of course, as you know I am practically Ann Frank when it comes to seeing the best in everyone, so perhaps I'm being uncharacteristically harsh about Henry. I do love "The Golden Bowl" which was also published in 1904. What could be more important than a story that revolves around a beautiful objet d'art?
Recently reissued with an introduction by Edmund White, Belchamber is a devastating tale, almost painful in the way, "it poses questions about good and bad behaviour and demonstrates effectively that virtue is rarely its own reward," as Anita Brookner writes. Sainty is an innocent and also as fey and unmanly as the diminutive of his name suggests, sensitive, timid and hopelessly ill-suited for the world he finds himself heir to; he's also a decent creature both oppressed and bound by duty.
It is probably just as well I am coming to a close on 1904, since I don't think any other novel I've read recently so brilliantly sums up the era's clash of high-minded Victorian ideals with the reality of Edwardian scandal, the contrast of sentimental sweetness and light with the base shadows of lurking decadence and corruption. So like our own times. Sainty is trapped in a world he finds morally repugnant and not just because he's been badly cast in it, for he also recognizes how perfectly his younger brother is for the part. In this respect, it is understandable why Henry James hated the book so much. Both Americans living in England, Sturgis looked at British society and said, "What an awful hypocritical set-up, and how absolutely it deserves to be destroyed, and just look at how some of them love it and will defend it to the end."
Whereas Henry said, "What a tragic hypocritical society, and how absolutely it is flawed, and how much I would love to be part of it and defend it to the end."
I guess I think the difference has something to do with envy. A yearning to be a part of. But what I find appealing in Sturgis is the sense that certain things need to come to an end. Like Pauline Kael said about "Earthquake" -- you know perfectly well the people who built those glass houses on stilts on the sides of sandy cliffs were stone-blind drunk and giggling when they did; it's gratifying to see L.A. destroyed.
Of course, as you know I am practically Ann Frank when it comes to seeing the best in everyone, so perhaps I'm being uncharacteristically harsh about Henry. I do love "The Golden Bowl" which was also published in 1904. What could be more important than a story that revolves around a beautiful objet d'art?
What do you mean by "coming to a close on 1904"? Have we done something to offend you? Are you leaving us?
[1904 replies: no, no, no, my darlings, nothing so dire as that. Just a change, of sorts, although what exactly, I'm still working out. When one door shuts, another opens...]
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A beautiful but flawed, and ultimately smashed, object d'art.
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